The Way The Cards Fall
by Grazia D
Summary: Takes place after the events of my story The Hunt For Isolde. Styled after Daniel Craig's Bond.
1. Chapter 1

She was standing naked in the cell. The temperature in the room hovered just above fifty degrees. No one said a word to her as they uncoiled the hose. She was getting used to the silence; no one had said so much as two words to her since she arrived a little over thirty seven hours ago. The first two hours she was left to sit in an interrogation room, alone, her wrists handcuffed to the desk in front of her. Then, just as soon as she felt her bladder was about to burst, one of the agents who had picked her up came in to free her wrists and allow her a brief trip to the restroom. She was then whisked off to a damp room a few levels below the interrogation room where she had been stripped of her clothing and ordered to put on a pair of white oversized cotton pants and a matching sleeved shirt. The bullet wound to her wrist was glanced at and bandaged and she was once again left alone, the room smelling of mold and age. Forty minutes later she had been transported to another cell, strapped down, her face covered with a heavy cotton towel, making it hard to breathe. Her heart rate had quickened, certain she knew what was to come next; she had been taught this interrogation technique in her training. She had used it only once and the thought of it being used on her was terrifying. But they had refrained and instead left her there for nearly two hours, knowing the psychological torture of not knowing when it was going to happen was probably much worse so early in the game.

They had taken her back to the damp cell afterward, speaking to each other in low tones, ignoring her completely. They locked her back up in her cell wordlessly, leaving her to silently count out the passing minutes in darkness. It was just ten minutes ago they had come for her again, escorting her down two more levels and ordering her to strip. One agent, one she recognized but had forgotten the name of, collected her clothing and handed it to an awaiting agent just outside the cell door. She had worked with him briefly in Oslo just after 9/11. He hadn't looked her in the eye since they had come for her in her original cell, but he wasn't deliberately avoiding her gaze, either.

Gooseflesh crept along her skin. The agent, the one she recognized, blonde and tall and slowly losing the battle of the bulge, connected one end of the hose a faucet located nearly directly across from her. Two other agents watched her, expressionless. The wound to her wrist ached and the muscles in her legs began to twitch in response to the cold. The blonde familiar slowly turned the handle of the faucet until water began rushing out the other end. The water would be cold, she knew, but this wouldn't last much more than forty minutes. Forty minutes. That would be all she'd have to hold out for.

He finally met her eyes without a hint of recognition as he turned the water on her. The cold water cut deep almost instantly. She cried out and turned instinctively away from the blast of water. Once she was soaked, the water stopped. She stood, trembling, her hair hanging limp from her head and dripping ice cold droplets onto her chilled skin. Her jaw clenched when another blast of water hit her. She screamed, and threw up her hands at an attempt to ward off the water. The water stung as it struck her skin, piercing through to the bone. Her lungs no longer seemed able to expand and she couldn't catch her breath. A steady stream began to run from her nose and her eyes pricked with tears.

Not a word said.

Not a question asked.

Yet they continued with enhanced interrogation techniques, only supposed to be used when the line of questioning was met with resistance. So far, there hadn't been a line of question to which she could have been resistant. It seems someone was still a bit angry with her.

A break in the flow of water. Quickly followed up by another dousing. It continued on for what seemed like hours, but realistically couldn't have been more than thirty minutes. By the time they had finished, she had collapsed to the floor, her head tucked in her arms, her body shivering uncontrollably. Without a word, she was pulled to her feet and dragged, naked, down the passageway toward her original cell. She attempted, in a haze, to force her legs to move and regain footing, which only caused her to stumble and nearly tumble to her knees. Grips tightened around her arms and she was roughly righted, without a slowing of pace.

A few moments later, they opened the door to a room, not her cell as she had thought, but another interrogation room, heated comfortably and well lit. She was handed a towel and her clothing before once again being left alone. Her fingers barely gripped the towel, her body still shuddering, as she ran it over her skin. Still not completely dry, but too tired and worn to care, she quickly dressed and took a seat at the table just a few feet from her. She jammed her clenched hands between her knees, feeling the heat in the room and wishing it would start to penetrate the chill.

The only door to her room opened and a wiry man of about five eight or nine and not much more than one forty five joined her. He had an open and friendly face, his red hair was cut in what she noticed was a standard issue cut for most men in any para military organization, and his blue eyes looked almost apologetic when he saw the sad state she was currently in.

She attempted to sit up straight, found her body unwilling or unable to cooperate and had to settle for staring right back at him, her emerald eyes never leaving his. He was alone at the moment, with a silver briefcase in one hand and a camcorder with a tripod in the other. He finally broke her gaze and set up the tripod, mounting the video camera on top before switching it on. The lens of the camcorder was focused directly on her face. He set the briefcase down by his feet. She remained silent until he chose to talk.

"Ms. Norreys." The red haired man didn't smile, but the softness was still there. She continued to stare. Her body continued to shake violently. "I'd like to talk to you." She stayed silent. The man looked her over before taking seat across from her.

"You're a hard woman to track down, Ms. Norreys."

She finally spoke. "Obviously not too hard. You found me." Her words slow and sluggish.

"That we did."

"So, what do you want?" The red haired man cleared his throat and paused for what she figured was dramatic effect. Get her squirming just a bit, even if he knew she wasn't the type to squirm.

"Ms. Norrys, I want to warn you these past hours have only been the beginning. I'm sure you know and understand that. However, cooperation from you will save you a whole lot of pain that is in your future." The red haired man leaned across the table, his fingers intertwined and resting lightly on the metal, surprisingly still cool to the touch despite the warm air inside the room.

She shrugged, apathy settling in.

"One thing." The red haired man was saying. "That's all I want to know. You tell me, you get a hot meal, a long bath, and a ticket out of here."

"Sounds almost too good to be true." She muttered dryly, her eyes still staring into his. "What do you want?" She finally asked after he remained silent for several beats.

"Where is James Bond?"


	2. Chapter 2

Nine Days Prior

Langley, Virginia

The third floor was silent. It was still too early for the normal traffic to begin to filter into the building, bringing with it the low din that played continuously in the background for ten hours a day. The stillness, the unnatural quiet, caused Derek Ben-David's footfalls to be that much louder as they bounced from the freshly waxed floor to the unblemished walls and back again.

He moved the folder from his left hand to his right, glancing down absently at his watch as he did so, not fully registering the time as a few minutes past four in the morning. He would glance back down at it a few minutes later when he reached the Director's office, this time noticing it was five after four in the morning; just after ten in Graz. They stepped up their game a bit, local police would still be apt to assist. It would get much harder as the day aged, when most men would want to be at home, enjoying evening meal, and heading off to sleep. That is, if they needed them at all.

Ben-David struck the closed door once with a knuckle, pushing it open when he received a gruff "Yes" as a reply. The nameplate to the right of the door read "Martin Szekely- Director Covert Ops" engraved into a shiny piece of metal. The placard was new. The promotion was new. The choice was surprising. But only to those who hadn't been privy to the turmoil surrounding the past thirty months. Assistant Director Dennis Paulson had once been a shoe-in to lead some of the Agency's finest intelligence officers. He had even been promised the promotion by the Agency head himself once Covert Ops director retired to his little corner of the United States; fishing of the coast of Oregon Ben-David had heard. And when Martin Szekely, former Chief Intelligence Officer working closely with what Ben-David and other agents inside Covert Ops referred to as 'desk jockeys, sometimes lightheartedly, usually derisively, and always with just a hint of contempt, was bumped up to Director, tongues wagged like they often do. Speculation turned to rumor and eventually turned to fact. Assistant Director Dennis Paulson was being punished for the acts of rogue agent Andra Norreys and the Agency head was making his point. Andra Norreys was cause for more than her fair share of headaches around the Agency and Ben-David was almost certain Martin Szekely would not be too happy this morning.

At first glance, a person might believe Martin Szekely was not nearly as impressive as his title would suggest. The Director's personnel file suggested he reached 5'7". They must have gotten him on a good day. Ben-David himself stood at just a titch over 5'8" and the Director was a good three inches shorter than he was. Szekely usually stood with a posture that would make a schoolmarm cry; shoulders hunched, a spine that curved just slightly to the right. His coal black eyes bulged behind wireless glasses; Ben-David thought the man looked perpetually surprised or astonished. A thick patch of silver hair was parted neatly off to the left. He could always be found in a blue suit with a grey tie, or a brown suit with a maroon tie, or a black suit with a striped tie, and always, always, with a crisp white shirt beneath. Szekely reminded Ben-David more as an accountant or a banker than the man responsible for the Agency's most prized division.

At least, until the man talked.

Martin Szekely's voice commanded attention he might not had otherwise received. If you discounted Martin Szekely on looks alone, his voice would assure you you had made one hell of a mistake. It was somewhat amazing that lithe body housed the sort of lungs capable of making such an impact.

When Ben-David entered, Szekely was busy knotting a striped tie—black suit today—by feel alone, his thin eyebrows knitted tightly together above his wireless frames. He was alone, something Ben-David hadn't expected. Of course, it was still early yet.

Szekely reached out with one thin arm, motioning for the folder. Ben-David handed it over without a word. Szekely flipped open to the first page, scanned it quickly before roughly turning to the set of photos paper clipped behind.

"Have they made a positive ID?" Szekely finally asked without glancing up at Ben-David.

"About fifteen minutes ago."

"Who made it?"

"Henson." Szekely peered patiently up at Ben-David over his glasses. "He's already been informed not to talk to anyone about the ID aside from you or myself." Szekely nodded, satisfied, and turned his eyes back to the photos.

"And when did you say NSA took these?"

"Eight days ago, sir." Szekely's eyes shot back up, his eyebrows arched so high they almost reached the top of his forehead.

"Eight?" He hissed.

"NSA had no clue those pictures were anything important at the time." Ben-David began. "It was only by chance someone who recognized her from the info we put out on her over a year ago. And even then, you know they were slow getting it to us. Afraid we might take over their case that we have no interest in taking over."

"Who's the man in the photo?" Szekely asked, pulling the top photo free with a quick jerk of the wrist, sending the three remaining photos and the NSA report askew.

"Edward Diaz. A Canadian national who immigrated to the United States ten years ago. NSA has been tracking him because they believe he sells government secrets to the highest bidder. No country in particular but they're certain he's getting ready to sell some of our own secrets to North Korea. They've been watching him since before 9/11."

"Where is this?" Szekely asked, waving the picture in his hand slightly.

"Outside a small restaurant in Graz, Austria." Ben-David started to tell Szekely the whole background of the photo, taken because Diaz was in Austria, supposedly to meet with a defector from inside NSA's own confines. Secrets were on the table, what sort he was not privy to; the information a NSA agent had defected was already more than his contact had wanted to share. But he decided not to. Treason would hit a little too close to home and Szekely probably wouldn't give a shit, anyhow.

Szekely stared at the photo a few beats longer. Behind and just off to the let of the beefy man dressed in a slick pinstripe suit was Andra Norreys. Confirmed by one of their own. Unbelievable, it seemed, but nevertheless, there she was. Her hair no longer wavy and blonde that ended just below her shoulders; currently cut to her chin, straightened and dyed a very natural looking auburn. In this photo, her sunglasses covered her eyes, but in the next one, her glasses had been pushed to the top of her head, pulling her thick bangs with them, reveling the emerald eyes, one streaked with thin wisps of brown. That had been the photo that caused all the stir. Hard to forget such a unique birth defect, especially when every US government agency had been flooded with every bit of information the Agency had on Andra Norreys and a not quite restrained plea for assistance.

Szekely placed the photo back where it originally had set, even clipping everything back together just as neatly as it had been presented to him, before closing the folder and raising his face just slightly so he could meet Ben-David's gaze.

"Does she have any connection to this Diaz?" Ben-David shook his head.

"None that anyone can find. She just happened to be there the day they snapped those photos."

"And this was eight days ago." This time, the Director received a short nod. "So, she's probably not even in Austria anymore."

"There's no reason she wouldn't be." Ben-David argued. "She has no idea we know she's alive. She probably still believes she's safe."

Szekely stared at Ben-David, his eyes still locked into the younger agent's, still wide with that perpetually surprised look, as he pondered the information given to him. He finally pushed himself away from his desk and to his feet, all in one fluid motion, grabbing the black suit jacket that had been draped neatly across the back of the leather chair as he did so.

"I have a meeting with the Boss this morning. I'll see what he wants us to do."

"With all due respect, sir, by the time we're given the go ahead, it'll be late, maybe even too late."

"I thought you said she's completely unaware."

"She is. Probably. However, we don't even have an idea where she is. Graz is a fairly big city, and Andra Norreys is obviously quite apt at hiding. We will probably need to bring local police in on this, if only as a lookout. If anybody knows where an American is hiding off the radar in their city, it's them."

Szekely appeared to think all of this over as he slipped his arms into the sleeves of the suit jacket. Silk linen sleeves from what Ben-David could see. Very nice, Ben-David thought. Something he couldn't afford on a GS-11 salary, but he was sure the Director had no problem paying the bills and buying expensive clothes.

"I'll get a hold of the section chief in Vienna and tell him to have the locals be on the lookout for Ms. Norreys. But until I have my meeting, I'm not going to have them do anything, understand?" Ben-David nodded. He stayed where he was for a few seconds longer in case the Director had anything he wanted to add, but when the silence stretched on, he turned on his heel and took his leave.

The door closed behind him with an audible click, the hallway still quiet and empty.

Ben-David headed back the way he came, his footfalls seeming much louder than they had on his trip down. He wondered if Szekely would give the information to the Agency head much sooner than he had hinted. The Director was no fool. He had seen what had happened to Dennis Paulson. Marked because of his involvement with Andra Norreys. Stuck for his entire career as Assistant Director because someone needed a scapegoat. There wasn't much chance Szekely would risk the same happening to him.

Ben-David pressed the call button for the elevator twice, checking his watch once more, out of habit more than anything. He once again failed to register the time; four seventeen A.M.


	3. Chapter 3

_Graz, Austria_

10:09AM

"Next, please."

The customs agent didn't offer a smile, but his tone was polite enough. The man dressed in a crisp pair of khaki pants and a light weight button down stepped forward and failed to offer a smile of his own. He handed over his passport without a word, bending slightly at the waist to set his carry-on and extra suitcase down at his feet.

"Mr. Fredricks." The agent muttered, his accent thick, as he examined the passport. "How was your trip, sir?"

"Just fine, thank you." Mr. Fredricks answered, reaching up to catch the sunglasses as the slipped from their perch atop his blonde hair as he straightened.

"How long will you be staying in Austria?" The agent was studying the man in front of him now.

"Seventeen days." Fredricks answered, his tone matching the custom agent's; even and polite. The agent wouldn't even imagine Mr. Fredericks was acutely taking in his surrounding; watching each face as they came into his peripheral, silently running through the pictures of faces tucked deep in his mind. So far, no one looked the least bit familiar. Or threatening.

"And is trip for business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure." Fredricks answered; the tiny smile upon his lips the only display of emotion he would allow. The agent nodded, a wisp of black hair falling across his forehead as he did so, and handed the man across from him his passport.

"Very well. Please take your passport and your luggage and see the gentlemen of to your left for a further inspection." Fredricks frowned, but only briefly, the corners of his mouth wrinkling slightly, his eyebrows knitting just momentarily. He nodded once and, with his passport and luggage in hand, made his way to the next set of agents. Each stared at him with identical looks, a mix of impatience and contempt.

Fredricks placed his luggage on the metal table separating him from the two men and handed over his passport for the second time that day.

"Would you unzip the bags, please, sir." The agent to his left requested as his partner looked over the passport Fredricks handed over with the same amount of scrutiny as the first agent had done. It wasn't a question.

Fredricks unzipped the carry-on first, then the larger suitcase, folding his covered arms across his chest as they rifled through his belongings. There wasn't anything interesting to find in the carry-on; an electric razor, a small can of shaving gel, a change of clothing, a blue toothbrush, some toothpaste. All organized neatly for easy access, or for a quick security check. The agent on his left searched each item efficiently and thoroughly. Looking for a false bottom on the shaving can, unfolding, and then haphazardly stuffing back into the luggage, the fresh pants, button down shirt and underwear Fredricks had packed.

Same routine with the larger bag. Each carefully folded item inspected, searched, and tossed arbitrarily back into the suitcase. Fredricks remained silent.

It was probably a good fifteen minutes before the agent was satisfied and another five minutes before his partner finally handed Benjamin Fredricks, Mr. Benjamin Stephen Fredricks, if you cared, his passport.

"Thank you, Mr. Fredricks. Welcome to Austria." The passport inspecting agent said without much pleasantry involved. Fredricks gave a curt nod and a respectful "Thank you" and not the crass "You can shove it up your ass" he had truly wanted to say, before continuing on.

A few minutes later he was standing outside the airport, enjoying the fresh air, hot and dry as it entered his nostrils. He slid his sunglass over his eyes, blocking some of the harsh glare tossed up as the mid-morning sun bounced off the line of automobiles parked erratically along the curb.

He picked up his luggage he had laid at his feet a began walking south, away from the main entrance, away from the thickest mass of cars which were mostly a mix of dented and abused taxis awaiting fares.

After reaching a break in the automobiles, Fredricks went to walk across the street, barely stepping away from the curb when a sleek black Audi pulled in front of him, blocking him. He leaned forward slightly, straining to peer through the tinted glass. A slow smile formed when the passenger window rolled down, revealing the dull grey leather interior and the slender woman behind the wheel.

"Wanna lift?" The woman smiled back at him, her eyes covered by dark sunglasses, her hair tucked neatly beneath a headscarf, her body covered conservatively. She pressed a button on the dashboard and the truck opened with an audible click. After stowing his luggage in the Audi's truck, Fredricks slid into the passenger seat, enjoying the cool air pumped into the interior by the car's air conditioning system. A pleasant change from the harsh heat outside.

"You're late." Fredericks chided the smile unmistakable in his voice.

"I am not!" The woman exclaimed. An eyebrow rose above the sunglasses. "And I should kick you right out of the car if that's how you think to greet me, Mr. Bond." His smile widened. She fought to keep the frown upon her face.

"You're absolutely right. I apologize. Hello, Andra."

"Hello, James."

_Langley, Virginia_

5:09AM

Around the same time Flight BA5955 was debarking at Flughafen Graz with the man seated in A06 making his way slowly through customs, Martin Szekely was sitting quietly in his office, right where Derek Ben-David had left him.

His meeting with the Agency head was in forty-three minutes. Each Director was expected to be in their seat fifteen minutes prior. CIA Director Jerome Kingsley never demanded such, but it was implied. It gave each Unit Director a chance to catch up, visit, mingle, swap information that hadn't already been emailed. Most Unit Directors saw each other face to face during these weekly meetings, so settling in a few minutes early never really hurt. Besides, Director Kingsley liked to get right to the point, no small talk, no chit-chat, no pleasantries. And God help you if you were late. The Agency head wasn't hesitant to replace Unit Directors for even the smallest transgressions. Didn't believe it? Ask Assistant Director Dennis Paulson.

Director Kingsley was also not one to overlook a job well done. He liked hearing unexpected news—good news, mind you—from his Unit Directors. The more unexpected the better. However, unexpected bad news—like the news Szekely was going to be bringing to the table that morning—upset Kingsley very, very much. It wasn't Szekely's fault Andra Norreys was still very much alive and kicking, however it wouldn't stop Kingsley from marking one little red check next to his name. No gold star for him that morning, no smiley face, no "good job!". But, if he was able to bring something else along with him, it could keep Kingsley from frowning down at his from the head o the table, mentally crossing Szekely's name off every promotion list for the next ten years. He might even see it as a job well done and he would get that gold star. And stay out of the CIA Director's radar as much as possible. If Kingsley believed the Unit Director had everything under control, he might just leave it at that.

Finding Andra Norreys before the meeting—a quick check of his watch told Szekely he had just under twenty-seven minutes until he was expected to fill his seat on the right hand side of Director Kingsley—would top the list of his most desirable outcomes. He had a snowball's chance in that happening, but he could get the ball moving by doing just a little bit more than he had told Ben-David. He could call Vienna and give agents there the go ahead to apprehend on site, should the local police be enough help to flush out an underground American. Really, they wouldn't need a few uniforms to collect information. Agents abroad would be able to get the same information; it would only take a little bit longer. But it would look better for locals to ask the questions, to walk the beat. Szekely had no doubt Kingsley would still want this handled as quietly as possible and Szekely had a feeling using CIA agents, agents Andra Norreys would no doubt be able to spot, would not be the most prudent move. It wasn't unusual for foreigners in civilian clothing to scour the streets of Graz looking for a blonde—auburn now, he had to make sure he remembered that—white American. It really wasn't that unusual for uniformed Cairo policeman to be looking for the same; plus residents would be much more apt to trust and speak to fellow residents. Tourists went missing all the time. Sometimes they were lost, sometimes they were kidnapped, sometimes they just plain went and fell of the face of the whole damned Earth. It wouldn't be strange for a policeman to stop by local businesses—hotels, restaurants (starting with the one Norreys was photographed outside of eight days ago), cleaners, markets—asking if anyone happened to see this young woman. You see, she's been visiting from the States and her parents haven't heard from her in a couple of days. Yes, it's a shame, but you haven't seen her around have you?

Szekely picked up the phone on his left, waited for the audible click, informing him the line was now secure and he could go right on ahead and make his call. He dialed the number he found in one of four Rolodexes he had lined up on his desk—one for OUTCONUS CIA posts, one for INCONUS CIA posts, one for various news outlets, and the final ones for secured lines into the White House used only when one of the hundreds of new outlets he had in the one Rolodex had a wild hair and felt the need to post something on the CIA. He would conference with someone inside the White House, usually the Chief of Staff, sometimes the Defense Secretary, once even the Vice President—Kingsley had and would always have the President's line and ear—and help prepare a statement that would satisfy the media and reveal nothing to what actually happened inside the CIA. It let the public thinking they had a grasp on what the spy agency did, when in fact, they hadn't a clue. And as far as there was a United States of America, it would stay that way.

It took until the fifth ring for his call to be answered.

"Sam? It's Martin."

"Martin! How the hell are you?" Section Chief Saad Zaranj—nicknamed Sam in elementary school, which was easier for his teachers in Fall Brook, Illinois to say then try and figure out how 'Saad' was pronounced—might have been halfway around the world, but his words came crystal clear. And he seemed to sound genuinely happy to hear from him. Szekely and Zaranj had gone to training together before jetting off in different directions in their careers, at least temporarily. Zaranj had been thrown in, feet first, into the Agency's Clandestine Services, mainly because of his Middle Eastern background as if the Agency had a feeling the Russians would be a distant memory twenty-three years after Zaranj joined the Agency—of course, the irony was not lost on either man that a man fluent in Farsi was placed in Austria after his promotion-, while Szekely started off in the Analytical Department. Szekely wove his way through the Agency while Zaranj wove his way through the Clandestine Service. Each was a smart move for the individual agents; Szekely enjoyed the Admin side of the house while Zaranj enjoyed keeping his hands dirty at individual CIA posts. Still, whispers and murmurs made their way to Szekely's ear. Zaranj might not be as happy as he seemed, stuck in the role as lowly section agent while classmate Martin Szekely made his way, quickly, to the top of the Clandestine Services, and if he played his cards right, to the top the Agency altogether.

"If I said I couldn't complain, I'd be lying." He garnered a laugh from the other end of the phone line.

"It's early there, isn't it? Burning the midnight oil, or catching the worm?"

"It'd be neither if I didn't have something of importance to clean up. Which is why I'm calling you."

"I figured it was more than just the burning desire to hear my voice." This time, Zaranj garnered a laugh.

"How's the climate with the local police these days?"

"Fair. It's a helluva a lot better here than it was in '03. The political hate seems to have died down. Why?"

"You remember Andra Norreys?"

"Sure." Zaranj answered quickly and matter-of-factly. "She's the reason you got your job, isn't she?" Szekely processed that statement, decided it was a zing directed more toward Dennis Paulson—a small joke Zaranj would never make in front of the Assistant Director because Szekely was sure Zaranj had too much respect for Paulson to do such—than himself and nodded before remembering he was on the phone and Zaranj wouldn't be able to see his nod. For that, he was extremely grateful.

"Well, it's been reported she's been wandering around Graz."

"That's pretty hard considering she's dead."

"She's not. I've seen the photographs myself. She's very much alive and very much well in Austria."

There was a lengthy pause on the other end. "Well, where? Graz's not exactly the smallest city, you know."

"That's where I need your help, Sam. We have no idea. NSA snapped a photo of her by accident and it took them over a week to finally let us know one of their guys recognized the woman in the photograph, behind their main point of interest, was Andra Norreys. On top of that, the report doesn't even state where they photographed their target. All I can gather is it's a restaurant." Szekely was looking through the report and photographs Ben-David had let behind once again, this time much more methodically. Nothing to give him a jumping off point. No street sign, no building numbers, not even the name of the restaurant Andra Norreys patronized. Shitty pictures, at best; no doubt the NSA kept the better photographs away from the CIA's eyes. Interagency help was not any federal agency's strong suit.

"Well, can you send me the photos and we'll take a look over here. Maybe we'll be able to recognize a street corner or something."

"Will do. I'll also send you an email explaining what needs to happen regarding this situation." Szekely added as he powered up his computer.

"Sure."

"Expect it in a few. I've got to get ready for a meet with Kingsley, so if you have any questions, wait until after nine or so my time to give me a call. But if you find Andra Norreys before then, don't hesitate to call my cell phone."

"Sure." Saad repeated. "Talk to you soon, then, huh?"

"You bet." The two said their goodbyes and Szekely dropped the phone back into its cradle with one hand as he placed on of the photos, facedown, on the scanner off to his right. He typed up his instructed in a classified email document, the acronyms NOFORN and FOUO—No Foreign Nationals and For Official Use Only—typed across the top and bottom in bold red font as well as in the email header as the computer downloaded the first image—and after a quick change, the second and third image—onto his desktop. He attached the newly downloaded files before clicking send, waiting until he received the cheery message informing him "Your email has been sent successfully!" before powering down him computer and pushing away from his desk once more. The clock on the wall told him he had exactly eleven minutes—eleven minutes and seventeen seconds, but who's counting, anyway?—to make it to the fifth floor conference room or risk the wrath of Director Kingsley.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the blue light that woke James. It pulled him from a twilight sleep; that sleep where you knew you were dreaming but unable to pull yourself completely out. He was alone in bed when he opened his eyes. It took a few seconds longer to register the fact the blue light bouncing off the walls in the darkened room was coming from outside and not a product of his dream as he first suspected. He pushed the covers away, the air conditioning a little too cool against his naked skin, and walked to the window. Andra had a room on the 17th floor and even with his forehead pressed against the cool glass he couldn't see what was responsible for the blue strobes. It didn't matter really. He already had an idea what was parked in front of the hotel.

James turned from the window and pulled on the khaki pants he had worn on the flight into the Cairo. He had no reason to feel rushed, but something in the back of his mind kept trying to force him to. Maybe it was the fact he had woken up alone. Maybe it was the fact the entire room was much too dark; a glance to the crack under the bedroom door told no lights burned beyond, nor did they illuminate the bathroom off to the left. Maybe it was the fact Andra's affects were gone from the nightstand. And if he looked into the wardrobe, he felt fairly certain her suitcase would be absent as well. He had no reason to feel this way, but he did.

After pulling the polo over his head, he stepped out of the bedroom, barefoot, pulling one arm into the sleeves at a time. The sitting room was dark and still, just as expected, the air still heavy from the afternoon heat. James remembered the air conditioning had been turned off soon after he and Andra had retired to her room.

The courtesy phone rang shrilly. James stared at it for a moment, slightly confused, before answering at the beginning of the fourth ring.

"Yes."

"I apologize for waking you, sir." The voice on the other end sounded cheery and alert, even at the late hour.

"You didn't" James answered flatly.

"I've been tasked with calling our guests to let them know they needn't be concerned, sir. About the police activity outside the hotel." The voice, slightly accented, continued. "Some of the other guests with rooms facing the street have called to complain the lights were keeping them awake." The voice paused. "Another guest had an accident. I apologize for disturbing you. If you wish, I can move you to another room, away from the street."

"That won't be necessary, thank you." James replaced the phone on its cradle and took another peek outside before returning to the bedroom. The first police car, still hidden from view under the immense concrete overhang, was now accompanied by another. A flash of lights turned the corner, this time an ambulance, joining the police cars up front.

James flipped on the light to the bedroom, slipping his bare feet into his shoes, thoughts turning slowly in his mind. Had it been Andra who had the "accident"? Not likely considering the room was now devoid of her presence. Had it been Andra who had caused the "accident"? Much more likely.

Except Andra had been on her own for over a year now. She no longer had ties to the CIA; the US Government had declared her dead soon after their last meet.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. It was quickly followed by a harsher pounding, much rougher than the polite tap that had preceded it. He stopped and listened, hoping for Andra's melodic voice to waft in from the hallway, asking to be let in. It wasn't her voice, however, that came from behind the door.

He grabbed his wallet from the nightstand and his passport from his carry-on and tucked it into his back pocket before answering the door. Everything in his body screamed for him to ignore the knock, maybe find some other way to exit because that voice on the other side didn't sound as cheery or as polite as the voice on the phone had been, but there wasn't. The hotel windows were designed not to open, and even if he could get out, he'd be mad to walk along the narrow edge beneath the window seventeen floors above unforgiving concrete.

But that phone call had been odd enough, and to be followed so quickly by a knock at the door. With Andra missing, it was safe to assume opening the door would not be in his best interest.

But he did so anyway.

In the hallway stood two uniformed police officers, each with their weapons drawn and held at the ready. Behind them stood a wiry man dressed in a moderately priced suit and wearing a gold name tag above his left breast. He peered over the shoulders of the uniformed men curiously, eyeing James with a mixture of awe and rebuke.

The elder of the two uniforms raised his gun, the muzzle aimed at James' chest, and advanced, shouldering his way into the room, yelling in a language James did not understand. James held his hands out from his sides, palms facing the officer. He stepped back twice before the officer came close enough to grab James by the wrist. With a twist, James' hand was behind his back and James was now facing the bedroom. The younger officer was now in front of him, his gun still hanging in front of him, at the ready, nowhere near on point as the older officer's had been.

Behind him, the older officer ordered a string of what James thought might have been commands. The grip on his captured wrist tightened and James' arm was pulled further up his back. James lurched forward involuntarily, but quickly recovered, throwing his head back with a force strong enough to garner a spongy crack when the nose of the older officer broke on contact. The hand on James' wrist loosened just enough to allow James to pivot on his foot and wrap a forearm around the neck of his captor, pulling the officer in front of him, using him as a shield as the younger officer's gun raised.

James pulled the officer's gun from his holster and pointed it at the man across from him in one swift movement, his eyes boring into the pale green ones belonging to the younger man. He saw in those eyes terror and stopped himself from pulling the trigger. This man would be no problem to him.

"Drop your gun." James said slowly and clearly, unsure but indifferent to whether the younger officer could understand the words or not. The man hesitated, looking to his partner, then to James and back again, his gun lowering a few inches, only to be yanked up again a moment later. "I said 'drop your gun'. I will not tell you again." James squeezed the trigger slightly, a motion the younger man caught. The officer immediately lowered his gun, allowing it to slip from his grasp and to the floor, his dark eyes wide and moist. "Step away." James ordered, taking a step toward the frightened man. The man did as he was told, even if he understood the words or not, taking several steps backward until his back collided with the wall behind him.

James, still very much aware of the body behind him, placed his left foot on the fallen gun as he tightened the hold around the older man. The officer, who had been still and complacent until that point began to struggle. His fingernails clawed at the flesh of James' arm and his body bucked against him. James held steady until long after the older officer stopped moving.

James released his grip and was able to pick up the fallen gun before the unconscious man slid completely to the ground. The younger officer groaned loudly, whispering quietly. "Quiet, I'm not going to kill you." James muttered before swinging the hand that cupped the older man's gun wide and crashing it directly against the left temple of the younger man. Those dark eyes rolled back into their sockets and the younger officer fell gracelessly to the floor, his body making a soft thud as it connected with the carpeting. James stripped the bodies of their radios, which had suddenly begun to squawk with life. James turned and made strides for the door, noticing the suited man was long gone and possibly the reason for the renewed radio life.

A precautionary look down the hallway revealed it was still clear, but he still had no idea what floor the back-up to the unfortunate door knockers were stationed. James played a quick game of heads or tails in his head and after the imaginary coin landed on heads, he chose the fire escape on his right to head down. He pushed open the door, glanced quickly above and then down before taking the stairs two at a time down. A door clashed and voices rang out, bouncing off the concrete walls of the stairwell, reverberating up, down, and back up again and making it nearly impossible to tell where the sound was coming from immediately. The radio in his hand—the other hand been dropped as soon as he entered the stairwell—screamed, adding to the noise and disorientating him more. James paused, listening to the footfalls. They were thankfully coming from above. James continued his journey down, sometimes skipping three stairs at a time, trying to mask his footfalls with those of the Graz police. He made it thankfully to the bottom floor, noticed it continued on into a basement and floored the steps down. He drew himself as close to the wall as physics would allow when the first floor emergency exit flew open, allowing five more police officers to run through. Not one glanced down; if they had, they would have seen James, or the knees on down at least.

His luck ran out when he tried to pull the basement door open and it refused to budge. James pushed then pulled again, with the same disappointing result. He kicked the door out of frustration and anger before taking a closer look at the lock. There were a total of two, and each was as high end and secure as the hotel itself. No luck trying to jimmy it open there. Wanting to kick the door a second time and forcibly resisting the urge, James walked back up to the first floor door, then to the second and finally to the third. He entered the hallway, and walked quickly and quietly to the elevators. He pushed the down arrow and waited no more than three second before the elevator welcomed him warmly. He pushed the '1' button and rode silently to the bottom, his stomach a tight lump in his throat. There would be more officers on the ground floor, but with any luck they wouldn't recognize him. But if they didn't, the desk clerk who had called just before the intrusion would.

But there wasn't much choice, was there?

The elevator opened smoothly. There was no one else on the ground floor except him and the desk clerk. Whatever back-up there might be was possibly still outside, or hadn't even arrived yet.

The desk clerk eyes widened suddenly as James approached. James thought they couldn't possibly get any bigger until the clerk noticed the gun in James' hand (the other had been tucked into his waistband soon after he exited his room).

"Sir..." the clerk began.

"I want to know the back way out of here." James ordered calmly, his eyes fixated on the clerk's.

"There's an exit out into the pool area down there." The same heavily accent English rolled out, this time not nearly as cheerily, but just as alert. The clerk had waved off to his right, down the hallway past the grand dining area.

"Fine." James continued his hurried stride sown the hallway and out the back door, exiting just as the clerk had said into the pool area. The lights were off, giving him a good deal of concealment and as far as he could tell, he was alone. James took off into a run at this revelation, hopping neatly over the waist high fence protecting the pool from the private yard behind it. Sirens echoed in the night, approaching the hotel from all sides it seemed. James tucked the gun into his pocket and kept running.

* * *

She dressed in the dark so as not to disturb him. She could hear him breathing, slow and rhythmic. She grabbed her suitcase from the closet where James had also tossed his luggage, and rolled it out to the living area where she could situate herself without much fear of waking the sleeping Brit.

She laid the suitcase down by the door and unzipped it. Inside, beneath a thick layer of clothing, she found the only three things she cared about. She retrieved the satchel she had stored beside the couch her first day in Austria and dumped the three items inside. She zipped up the suitcase and stood, grabbing the double breasted Burberry she hadn't found much use for since leaving Amsterdam and slipping it over her body. Belted tightly, it hung just at her knee. She grabbed the heels she had kicked off soon after bringing James to her room and held onto them, not wanting to put them on until she was in the hall.

She took one last look around the room. Satisfied, she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and slung the satchel over her shoulder before exiting out into the hallway. The floor was quiet; not unusual for a few minutes after midnight. She slipped the heels onto her feet and walked toward the elevator, careful not to look up directly at the cameras that watched the entrance to the elevator at each floor. She pressed the up button and waited as the elevator rushed to the 17th floor. The doors opened. She was glad to see she was still alone.

Once inside the elevator, she pushed the button for the 20th floor, the top floor; the floor above the one her assignment was on.

She had watched her target for a week straight, quickly learning his schedule as he wasn't one to deviate unless absolutely necessary. A few runs by the 19th floor taught her the hallway leading to his room was out; four men stood guard twenty four hours a day, whether her target was in the room or not. One man also stood by the elevator, ID'ing everyone who exited, finding out who did and didn't belong.

She had thought about poison, but quickly dismissed the idea. One so paranoid would certainly not eat anything made by anyone less than his own personal chef, who happened to be roomed right next door to her target. She also learned whatever the chef made from him came from ingredients stored somewhere outside the hotel and she really didn't have the time, nor the patience to find out where.

His car was also a no-go. Stored off-site and driven in every morning by his driver, the Mercedes was armored, protected against high powered rifles and IED's as well as equipped with runflat tires and special casing around the car's most vulnerable areas. Given enough time, she could probably work around all that, too, but she just didn't have it; the target was supposed to be back in the States in two days.

Instead, she would have to do it the hard way. Which was just the way she liked it.

The elevator stopped and opened to her floor. She exited, dragging the suitcase along behind her. She immediately ducked into the emergency stairwell, leaving the suitcase just inside the doorway before taking the stairs to the roof. She shed her coat, unzipped the satchel and tucked it inside. She rolled down the legs of her pants and slipped off the heels, tossing them in with her jacket before retrieving the sneakers she had placed inside just a day before. After slipping the sneakers onto her feet, she grabbed the climbing rope and piano wire she had taken from her suitcase. She slipped the satchel over one shoulder once again and stepped onto the roof. It took only a moment to locate her target's room and hook one end of the climbing rope to the side of the roof. After affixing the rope to her body, she reached into the satchel, pulling out a pair of well-worn leather gloves and a fleece cap. She tucked her hair beneath the cap and slid her hands into the gloves before beginning the climb to her assignment's window.

She took her time, no need to rush and possibly slip. He would be alone in the room. Asleep. The hotel's building schematics showed the room in which he was staying was laid out exactly as her room on the 17th floor. She would be able to slip in through the main window, a window that didn't properly lock, according to the hotel maintenance reports she had scanned.

The climb down took nearly ten minutes. It took another five to get a good enough hold on the window to force it open. She opened it just enough to allow her to slide through sideways, unhooking herself from the rope the moment she had a good grip on the windowsill. Once inside, she closed the window, not wanting the sounds from the street below to wake her assignment. The room was hot and stuffy, causing her to sweat beneath her clothes. The living area was cluttered with paperwork, a laptop lay open on the couch, its screensaver casting a glow on the small area around it. A suit jacket was draped over a chair, dress shoes laid on the ground next to it.

She continued on into the bedroom, pushing open the divider that separated the two areas. She froze when she saw the bed empty. Her eyes darted around the bedroom when a sound drew her attention to the bathroom on the right. No light shone beneath the door. A cough confirmed someone was inside nonetheless. She moved toward the bathroom , unwrapping the wire she had tucked into her waistband before the climb.

A toilet flushed and a few beats later, the bathroom door opened. Her target exited, still looking half asleep and wobbling slightly as he walked toward the bed. She waited until he passed before bringing her arms up and pulling the wire tight across his neck. Her target was half a foot taller than she, which made things slightly awkward. As she pulled the wire tighter, her target stumbled back, caught unaware and soon struggling to free himself. She spread her feet to brace her target's excess weight and brought her hands together so they were touching. Her target thrashed, his arms flailing backwards in vain. She went to her knees, bringing her assignment with her, where he ended up falling onto his behind quite hard. She listened, blocking out the sound of her assignment's struggling, for the sound of his bodyguards coming through the door. Hearing none, she was relieved. The sound her target had made falling to the ground wasn't as loud as she had thought.

Her target was weakening. His arms no longer flailed in attempt to stop his attacker. The gurgling in his throat, now mixed with a sort of a wet sound, lessened and his legs stopped moving altogether. She waited until his breathing completely stopped before letting go of the wire completely and pushing the body away from her. Her target slumped over to his side. She stepped over his body and into the bathroom, where she rinsed and dried her gloves before retreating the way she had come. She slid open the window once more, reattached the rope that dangled just outside, slid the window shut behind her and made the climb back up. After making back to the roof, she collected the rope and her suitcase. She didn't risk being caught on camera yet again, so she took the fire exit stairs all the way to the first floor, stopping only once at the third to roll up her pant legs, slip on the trench and let her hair loose from the cap. She transitioned once again to heels before breezing into the main hallway of the hotel. She walked through the lobby, careful not to look at the half dozen security cameras as she exited. Once outside, she quickened her steps just slightly and reached into the pocket of her coat. She pulled out a cell phone and a set of keys and continued on, her suitcase rolling loudly on the concrete behind her. Parked in the main lot was the Opel Zafira she had rented a week before. She hit the unlock as she dialed 112 into her cell. She didn't wait for the voice on the other end to finish before saying "Something's wrong at the Bad Blumau." She stammered in unaccented German, the panic and terror in her voice sounding true. "There was a sound of a struggle in the room next to me and I just saw a man…blonde hair and blue eyes about 178 centimeters covered in sweat and I think blood. Room 1902." and slamming the phone shut. She tossed it to the ground and stepped on it a half dozen times, completely smashing the phone to pieces, before slipping into the car.


	5. Chapter 5

_Langley, Virginia_

Dennis Paulson tapped a finger on his desk—the middle finger on his right hand; a nervous tic he had since childhood. It was nearly 9:30 at night and growth began to appear on his chin. He'd been in his office for the past thirteen minutes, reading and re-reading the intel report in front of him. Szekely was not going to like anything he had to say. At all.

Found dead in Graz two hours prior was Tygo Reijnders, listed publically as one of the wealthiest men in the world and privately as an informant and friend to the American government. His wealth and savvy business decisions brought in in close contact with all sorts of investors, legitimate and criminal, which the CIA used to its benefit. Only a handful of people knew of Tygo's relationship with the foreign government, but it was surely the reason he had been strangled tonight. But that wasn't going to be the only reason Szekely was going to upset when Paulson made a surprise visit and passed along the information.

"Fuck it." Paulson muttered as he stood, grabbing the report with his right hand. He walked down the hallway toward the elevator—it would be his first trip to Szekely's office since the day Szekely took residence in the job that was rightfully his—each step more determined than the last. He would have to explain the delay, but he wouldn't tell the truth. He would explain how come he was the first person at Langley to see the report and that would be the truth. He wasn't supposed to have any involvement with the Norrys case; that much was made clear by Director Panetta. Derek Ben-David was the lead for that. Paulson was to sit quietly in his office until he reached his thirty and then he would retire quietly. No fuss, no muss. His name would adorn the wall as the Assistant Director of Covert Operations, he would receive the standard retirement gift and party, maybe in a few years his name wouldn't be a joke around the water cooler anymore. The only reason he got to keep his position was because of his work in Kosovo and Brazil and, to be honest, because the former CIA Director liked him. Anyone else, he'd probably be humping a pine somewhere in Siberia, keeping an eye on an almost non-existent Russian threat. The Russians didn't care about the U.S. anymore. The U.S. is on its decline as a superpower and Putin knows that. Sure, there are still too many spies from both sides keeping watch from the inside, but it was more about one-upmanship and "tradition" than because of any threat. Paulson could have just as easily been another to add to the ranks. All because of Andra Norreys.

He rode the elevator up two flights and continued down the hall toward Szekely's office. The door was closed but a gruff 'Come in' floated out after the first knock. He expected disdain when he entered but did not receive it. Instead, Martin looked up from his desk, to the papers in Paulson's hand and back down again to finish whatever he had been writing.

"I wasn't expecting you'd still be here." Szekely said, his voice slightly muted due to the fact his head was tilted down toward the papers in front of him.

"I had an eight o'clock call from Kabul that I stayed for." Paulson answered, taking a seat in one of the three chairs positioned in front of Szekely's desk. He didn't wait for, nor did he need, permission to sit. He had nearly thirty years to Martin's twenty-two. That made him the senior man, whether the desk jockey liked it or not.

"You've heard about our situation in Austria?" Szekely asked, his gaze still focused on the immediate priority in front of him.

"That's why I'm here."

"Really." Martin looked up at him with renewed interest. "Do share." Behind the glasses, his eyes flittered down to the file Paulson was holding and back up again.

"At 12:15 A.M. local time, Graz police received an emergency call about a disturbance in the Bad Blumau hotel. Authorities arrived and found Tygo Reijnders strangled to death in the bedroom of his suite." Szekely pounded on his desk with an open palm and collapsed back in his chair. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"We could've had her hours ago, but the locals decided they had more important things to do with their time."

"Well, to be fair, we're not exactly the most liked country in the world right now. Especially with European countries who gain nothing from helping us out in any way." Szekely didn't appear to be listening.

"And now we have no idea where she is, right?"

"Well, we know she's the one who made the 112 call."

"Really?"

"Really. I've listened to the recording. It's her. But when our people arrived, she was nowhere in the hotel, so, yes, I suppose we now no longer know where she is."

"That's great. That's just fucking great." Szekely stood abruptly, the chair sliding quickly from beneath him, and he paced the length of the desk, his brow knitted and his lips turned up slightly in disgust. This was the first time Paulson had ever heard Szekely swear; it probably meant the small statured man was coming to a realization he would end up just like the heavier man across from him the longer Andra Norreys was alive, especially after the murder of a key player in the clandestine world. _'Don't worry your tiny little head one bit, Martin_,' Paulson thought as he followed the Director with his gaze _'We all end up in the same boat eventually. You're only as good as your last successful mission. After that, no one cares. No one cares at all_.'

Szekely stopped pacing and held his hand out toward Paulson. It took Dennis a moment to understand what Szekely wanted was the file in his hand. For a beat, he considered giving it to him. In fact, the only reason he had it in his hand was to give it to the Director. But something changed. He didn't want to give it to him. He wasn't going to give it to him. A potentially career ending offense, he knew, but it just wasn't going to happen. There was someone else who needed a heads up before the CIA set anyone loose on Graz.

"What?" Paulson asked, dumbly, trying not to show his utter contempt when Szekely's face twisted into annoyance.

"Is that the file from Graz?"

"No." Paulson lied. "It's from Kabul. Just basic intel. I was going to drop it off in the box on my way out of here."

"Oh." Szekely thankfully let the thought of the file slip from his thoughts as she returned to his seat. "Has Ben-David been briefed, yet?"

"I went by his office, but he wasn't there." Paulson lied again.

"Well, find him and brief him. And how come you're here and not him? You're not supposed to have anything to do with Norrys." Paulson had hoped the news would have caused Szekely to forget that little bit of information.

"It was a routing mistake. It's already been taken care of." Szekely nodded and turned his attention back to the papers he had been concerned with when Paulson entered. Dennis took that as a sign to leave and stood, slamming the door behind him a little harder than necessary only for the satisfaction of knowing it would annoy Szekely and there was nothing he was going to do about it. The Director might be the boss in title, but when it came to Paulson, the only man he answered to was the AD of the CIA and that's the way it was going to stay.

Paulson forced himself to keep from running back to his office, but when the elevator came too slowly, he sprinted down the stairs. His office was only a few hundred feet away and his strides were long so it was no time before he was back into his office with the door locked behind him and the phone to his ear. He dug around in his desk for the slip of paper with the number he needed on it, the dial tone buzzing in his ear. He found the Post-It tucked deep in the back of the top drawer. When he went to dial, the phone clicked, thinking it had been left off the hook. Annoyed, Paulson hit the switchhook and the dial tone resonated once more and he quickly dialed the number he had scribbled down a few months prior. The number was always changing, security reasons, but she always made sure she let him know it. He glanced down at the clock on his desk as the call connected and a quick calculation in his head told him it would be well after two in the morning in London. It wouldn't be the first late night call she would receive and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

"What is it?" she answered after three rings, her voice still ribboned with sleep.

"I know it's late, M, but I'm sorry." M wasn't her real name, but he would never utter it, especially not on this line. He had known her by many other codenames over the years, and yes, even by her real name, but she was M now, the head of MI6, the master. And it M he would call her.

"It is bloody late. What happened?" The sleep was gone from her voice now; she was alert.

"I'm not sure. You remember Andra Norreys?"

"She was one of yours, yes?" From anyone else, he might have construed that as a dig, but she wasn't like that. Besides, he was well aware of how many MI6 agents disappeared, either to switch sides or to branch out on their own. Andra Norrys was no Noriega, but she made her own waves throughout the spy community.

"Yeah, about a year ago, you sent 007 out after her, if I remember correctly." Of course he remembered correctly. She didn't answer. He didn't expect her to. "I'm sending you a few things. I want you to take a look at them."

He unlocked his computer and forwarded the photo of Norreys the NSA had shared over a week ago and the file he intercepted nearly an hour before. He heard the chime on the other end of the phone as they appeared in her inbox. A few more seconds passed before she spoke again.

"When was this taken?" she asked quietly. She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.

"A week and a half ago in Graz, Austria. NSA was concerned with someone else in that picture and she just happened to be at the right place at the right time. Tonight, one of our informants was murdered in his hotel room in Graz. We're pretty sure it was Norreys. It's her voice on the recording I sent you. And the reason for my call." He waited as M clicked through the second email. He could hear Andra's voice faintly through the receiver. It was in German, but he had attached the transcript as well. A few more moments of silence passed before M spoke.

"Are you asking me if I knew she was still alive?"

"No. I'm not asking anything. I just thought I needed to give you a heads up before anyone here hears that tape. They're going to know who she's talking about."

"How long do I have?"

"Ten minutes. After that, I'm going to forward the file to my boss and it's going to be all downhill from there."

"Thank you, Dennis."

"You're welcome, M." Paulson placed the phone back in its cradle and leaned back in his chair, silently watching the clock as it counted out ten minutes. At 9:55, he pressed send and shut down his computer.


	6. Chapter 6

"Twenty years ago, I wouldn't have to give you a chance to explain; I could just have you killed."

James lowered the phone, glanced upward briefly and sighed before bringing the receiver back to his ear. The agent beside him, not a 00, he knew; more likely some lowly office assistant assigned to the field office in Vienna, or maybe even someone M had fly out from the London office, looked up from his newspaper at the movement. He glanced around him and once at Bond before returning to his article.

"I appreciate the change in times." James answered dryly, against his better judgment. Now wasn't the time for remarks. He figured he was lucky enough not to be dragged back to London to stand before her and report. That could all change in an instant.

The agent had found him in an area just outside Graz, the tracker M had ordered injected into his arm to replace the one that had been removed unceremoniously over a year before, doing its job. After escaping the hotel, he grabbed an aged Mercedes that was chosen specifically because he knew it would be easy to hot-wire, and drove as cautiously as he could until he reached the outskirts of the city. He knew someone would be around eventually, so he picked a spot that was fairly easy to spot from the roadway and waited. Only one other car passed before the agent pulled up in an Audi. He hadn't said anything; he just handed a cell phone through the window and put the vehicle in park, waiting a few minutes before opening a newspaper and flipping through pages.

"You're not in a position to act flippant, Bond." M's voice sounded faint, but not because of the connection. He imagined she was reading whatever report she had gotten her hands on in the period between his awakening at the hotel and her sending an agent to find him. "I'm sure you have a good excuse as to why Andra Norreys is still alive?"

"I do not."

"I'm surprised."

"Give me some time and she won't be."

"Andra Norreys no longer concerns you. You will return to London and deal with the consequences of your actions here." When he didn't answer, M continued, her tone much harsher. "The Americans will not hesitate in taking care of you without the slightest hesitation or forewarning phone call. They've learned over the years it's better to ask for forgiveness than to beg for permission."

"They couldn't find her before." James reminded her.

"The agent with you has been instructed to stay with you until you leave the country. You have an 8 A.M. flight. I suggest you try and get some sleep."

"I'm not leaving without Andra."

"If I in anyway made you believe I was giving you a choice, I do apologize. There is no choice. You will be on that flight or I will let the Americans have you."

"Just give me five days." James interrupted. "If I don't have her by then, you can fire me or kill me. Whichever you prefer."

"This isn't a negotiation."

"Five days, mum."

"I'm sorry your ego has been bruised but you will not attempt to lick your wounds on the Crown's money." There was no persuading. She was set. And the more James talked, the more determined she became.

James sighed, defeated, and ended the call without a final goodbye. The agent reached out his window for the phone, at which time James paused. He looked down at the cell phone in his hand and then at the agent before reaching over and shifting the Mercedes into first gear. If the agent had any notion as to what James was going to do next, it didn't show on his face. James tossed the cell phone onto the seat next to him and pressed on the accelerator. The car sputtered at the sudden command, but recovered quickly, the front tires catching on the paved roadway, screeching as they pulled the Mercedes up from the lowered embankment. James knew the Mercedes was no match for the no doubt finely tuned Audi his counterpart piloted, but there was hope the element of surprise would be on his side. The roads outside Graz wound their way through the densely forested area, providing no off roads in which to escape. James' only choice was to stay the course until he made it back into the city. Behind him, the headlights of the Audi bounced as the agent forced the car onto the roadway. James turned his attention back to what laid out in front of him; there was no time to worry about what was going on behind. Worse case scenario the agent caught up with him and dragged him to the airport. But that wasn't going to happen.

James rounded a corner and the main road beckoned to him. The streets on the eastern side of the river Mur were too maddeningly easy to navigate; there would be no chance to lose the Audi there. So James took a sharp right, heading north and toward the closest road with access to the western side of the Mur. The Audi, the young agent a little more cautious than James when he reached the main road, paused slightly before pulling out into traffic, lengthening the lead James had. James downshifted and turned left, narrowly missing an oncoming Opel. After crossing the river, James took another right, a large row of apartment complexes on his left, the Mur on his right. He made the first right in front of the apartments, noticing briefly the Audi had closed the gap between them. James pushed harder on the accelerator and blew through a stop sign. An oncoming moving van flashed his lights and honked, more out of annoyance James figured since there had been plenty of time for the van to stop if needed. The van didn't slow, however, believing James was the only risk, and proceeded through the intersection, catching the front bumper of the Audi and sending it careening in a wild spin across the intersection before jumping the curb and crashing into the front of a row of apartment homes. James glanced back briefly, but didn't slow, maintaining his speed until he was a few blocks away.

The engine slowed as James lifted his foot from the pedal and downshifted, following the streets as they led him around a park and ended at the train station. He pulled the Mercedes into an empty parking spot close to the few cars that were left in the lot. He shut off the engine and stepped out, making sure he grabbed the cell phone before doing so. He slammed the car door behind him and flipped open the cell phone, redialing the last number he had called. She was going to be angry, but she would get over it.


End file.
